


Circle, Unbroken

by Sad Cowboy Malone (NobleMalone)



Series: Blood, Hatred, Money, and Rage [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Arthur "Big Dick" Morgan, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Arthur Morgan's Broken Dick, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bottom Arthur, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Dutch continues to be a Bad Man, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Just a Big Fucking Bummer, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Penis In Vagina Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Spoilers, Verbal Humiliation, We got it all folks, chapter 2 spoilers, i'm only in chapter 4 forgive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobleMalone/pseuds/Sad%20Cowboy%20Malone
Summary: Her words had stung, and in that moment he’d wished she’d just go ahead and hit him already, beat him like a bad dog and get it over with. He'd imagined her grabbing him by the hair, forcing him to his knees; imagined her slapping him hard across the face, hard enough to leave the shape of her hand there like a brand; imagined her taking his big, brutish hand in hers and pushing it up under the skirt of her nightgown, up and up until his fingers made it clear just how sorry he was. It would've hurt more than whatever this was, but at least if she’d done that it would’ve been familiar.---Dutch'd raised him up with love, but what is love in the hearts of men like them?





	Circle, Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags; this is a direct sequel to No Good Man, but can be read independently, probably. It does, however, reference the events of the previous fic.

_Rage, money, hatred, and blood_  
_More savory than innocence_  
_More intimate than love  
I really want to hurt you_

_But that won't be enough_

 

 

He remembers the first time he realized he might be in love with Mary Gillis.

 

Arthur’d been doing some work for her daddy, filling in for a farmhand what'd quit midseason. He didn’t mind much, even if her daddy was a rude and thankless man; it was honest, mindless work, it’d paid, and every day he’d hauled hay and mucked stables, Mary’d been waiting in the evening with a pitcher of sweet tea like they made in the South and a kind word for him. Maybe even a peck on the cheek, if he should be so lucky.

 

Dutch would’ve laughed at him if he’d known what Arthur got up to there, wasting his talent for power and violence on farmwork. But it didn’t matter much, so long as Dutch didn’t know.

 

It’d been a hot day, and so humid that the air seemed to pull the sweat from him as he worked, until it dripped down his brow and the front of his shirt had soaked through with it. He’d stripped the shirt off without thinking, tucked it to hang from the back pocket of his jeans, let his suspenders fall to dangle by his thighs as he worked. Sawdust and stray straw had clung to the sweat on him, and he’d felt the sun begin to fry freckles onto him, but at least he’d been able to let the breeze cool him as he’d pounded nails into plank after plank of the slow-growing fence. 

 

He hadn’t even heard Mary approach, over the sounds of his carpentry; his back’d been to the house from where she’d come, carrying a glass of water and a pair of sandwiches on a wooden platter. He didn’t even realize she was there, couldn’t feel her eyes on the bare skin of his back, until she'd spoken.

 

“Arthur, take a minute to have some lunch with me, wouldn’t you?” Her voice was soft, too soft, as if speaking to a wounded animal. The way he’d looked, filthy and exposed,  with nothing to hide the evidence of his violent life, etched into his skin like notches in a bedpost – he’d figured she must’ve thought him quite monstrous, then. It’d’ve explained the way she’d turned away from him then, her cheeks flushed red with shame for him. He was a god damn embarrassment.

 

 Arthur’d tried real hard to keep proper with her, to keep her good name good; she was a fine lady, with a reputation and everything, and he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize that. Had kept his shirt buttoned to the neck and tucked in, respectful of her womanly dignity. Had held her hand, quiet and unassuming. Had kissed her only once, her hands firm on his biceps as she’d pressed her mouth to his – it’d been chaste and untempting and she had stepped away before he could open his mouth to her the way Dutch'd taught him to do.

 

He weren’t supposed to, it was unmanly, he knew, but he’d liked keeping proper with her. Liked keeping things soft and innocent like puppy love, like maybe he weren’t a terrible man in a terrible world, doing terrible things, having terrible things done to him. He’d liked how it’d been pure with her.

 

And he’d gone and mucked the whole thing up, letting her see him like that, half-nude and sweating like a workhorse, covered in dirt, freckled and burned from the noonday sun.

 

She’d sat down beside him on the grass, tucking her legs underneath her and handing him the glass of water. He’d swallowed the whole thing in a few desperate gulps, suddenly parched and unreasonably thankful for an excuse not to look at her, not to meet those big brown eyes that saw through so much of him. He’d felt a right miserable fool, beastly and monstrous, and he’d wanted to run from her then. He’d wanted to cry.

 

“Goodness, Arthur, look at you. What has happened to you?”

 

He hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t known what he _could_ say; how to explain away the brindle of scars across his back, or the cluster of ugly puckered cigar burns that sat above his hipbone, or the sickly yellow-green boot-bruises that lingered along his ribs, all reminders of a hundred lessons well-learned. She wouldn’t understand.

 

“You’ve gone and gotten yourself burned something awful, you silly man.”

 

Her hand had landed like a bird on his freckled shoulder, impossibly gentle and cool on his sun-seared skin. It was so soft and smooth and small, feather light, the touch without pressure or conviction – she’d just let her hand rest there for a moment before allowing it to fall away, flaccid in its lack of intensity.

 

She’d gone to get him a cold cloth to press against the burned skin of his face, and he’d shrugged his shirt back on and lit a cigarette as he’d waited. Inhaled deep, quivering breaths of sour smoke and tried to will the pounding of his heart to slow and quiet, to will the knot in his stomach to uncurl itself.

 

She had seen what he was, what’d happened to him, and hadn’t said a word, hadn’t asked him about it, hadn’t made him do a single thing he didn’t want to do. It’d made him love her more than he’d ever loved any single person, in that moment.

 

***

 

That summer, Dutch’s long game had been the munitions trade; figured if they spent the year accumulating arms and ammunition, the gang could drag it all down the Mexico that winter, sell the lot to the highest bidder, and live free and easy on the beach until the weather warmed again. The goal had been lofty, but Arthur’d had faith in the plan.

 

They’d gone to meet Bill Williamson at a big saloon in Wickerton, mostly just to see if the fella could be trusted;  he’d said he had information on a military supply shipment, but Dutch’d bought bad information before and had paid dearly for it. They’d learned long ago that any deal worth its salt could be best assessed when all parties were sufficiently liquored up and loose-lipped. A man who would not drink with you was not to be trusted.

 

They’d had no such problem with Bill.

 

Arthur’d hated the man just by the look of him; his wide, flat face, and the way he’d sneered rather than smiled as they’d shaken hands. How he’d looked Arthur up and down as Dutch’d introduced the two of them – “And this is the man I’d told you about, Bill; my boy, Arthur” – as if he were sizing Arthur up for a fight. That alone had made Arthur want to clock the bastard.

 

The six of them – Dutch’d brought along Hosea, John, and scrappy little Mattie McClintock, who’d died gutshot in the street not six months later – had gotten well and truly drunk on cheap whiskey and tall tales that night. Arthur’d drank til the room swam, until Dutch’s hand on his knee had begun to creep northwards and the predatory gaze of the working girls in the corner had begun to burn holes through the hazy peace of mind the booze'd provided.

 

“’M’nna go take, take a fuckin’ piss,” he’d slurred before he’d stumbled his way out the side door of the crowded saloon, into the quiet peace of the dark night outside.

 

In the narrow alleyway, he’d leaned his burning forehead against the cool brick of the building to steady the swaying world as he pissed; had stayed standing like that even afterwards, clumsy fingers fumbling with a book of matches he just couldn’t seem to work out.

 

He'd kept dropping his damn cigarette in the mud, had just managed to get the damn thing lit when a voice’d rung out in the dark and he’d jumped like a startled rabbit. His cigarette had fallen and fizzled in the mud.

 

“Dutch’s boy! Found ya, you big ol' bruiser – was you hidin' from me?”

 

For as drunk as Arthur’d been that night, Bill’d been even worse off; he’d barely managed to stagger down the alley, tripping the last few steps to catch himself with a heavy hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

 

“Whaddyou want, Williamson?”

 

“Whadda _you_ want, huh, _miss_ -ter Morgan?” Bill had leaned in close to his face, and the heat of his whiskey breath on Arthur’s face had made Arthur feel as if the walls had begun to close in on the both of them, as if he was being swallowed up by the stinking, sticky mud beneath his feet, immobilized by it.

 

“'Cause what _I_ want,” Bill had continued, “is a good, hard fuck. I bet you know what that’s like, hey big fella? Sure you do, look at you, I betcher hung like a damn horse, bet you love swingin' that big, fat cock around like –“

 

His hand had grazed Arthur’s belt buckle, and Arthur’s fist had met Bill’s mouth with the wet, sickening smack of flesh on flesh. But Bill hadn’t gone down like Arthur’d thought he would; the man was sturdy, even soused, and he’d tackled Arthur the ground with his hands around Arthur’s neck in response, bashing his forehead against Arthur’s face in away that’d had his mouth filling with hot, coppery blood.

 

They’d fought, dirty and mean in the mud, until John’d come looking for them – when he’d tried to haul Arthur away, he’d caught a fist in the nose what broke it and got him bleeding nearly as bad as Arthur was. His nose'd never looked quite the same, after that.

 

But even with a busted nose, or maybe because of it, John had run to get Dutch; He must’ve, 'cause it was Dutch who’d grabbed Arthur by the hair at the back of his head and pulled, vicious and familiar, until Arthur’d stilled his flying fists and let himself be dragged away from the puddle of piss and mud and blood they’d been brawling in.

 

He remembers the sharp tang of blood and whiskey in his mouth, the sting of sweat in fresh wounds, the sharp sting as Dutch had slapped him hard across the cheek; Dutch’s heavy rings had split the skin below Arthur’s bruised and swollen eye, and blood had dribbled like a tear down his cheek.

 

 

 

 

The next morning he’d been so sore and hungover he could barely move, every bone in his body aching – even his teeth’d hurt, though when he’d looked in the mirror and seen the bruised mess of his face, that one’d made a little more sense.

 

He’d laid, curled on his cot, bemoaning the drink what’d put him that way for most of the morning, until Dutch’d taken pity on him and brought him a tin cup full of watery coffee and a bowl of stodgy porridge, which he had then insisted on spoon-feeding to Arthur like he was a babe. But Arthur’d supposed he’d deserved the humiliation, after the way he’d acted the night before.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, son; you know as well as anyone that I appreciate your proclivity for violence,” Dutch’d said as he’d coaxed Arthur to open his mouth, not unlike a baby bird, running the spoon over his cracked and swollen lips. “But you _must_ get a handle on this temper of yours. I need you an angry cuss, but not an unpredictable one. That ain’t how I raised you.”

 

Arthur’d wanted to hit Dutch then, wasn’t really sure why; he supposed that was the point. 

 

***

 

His sunburn was finally fading and the dark bruise under his eye was still fresh and tender when Mary’d again managed to make him feel gutshot and wounded and open in a way that’d scared him shitless – scared him shitless, sure, but got him so desperately in love with her that it’d keep him returning, again and again, for the rest of his life.

 

He’d been meant to meet her in town after Sunday service for lunch and a stroll down the shopping street; whether she’d wanted to shop for herself or to finally get him a shirt without a bloodstain in it had remained to be seen.

 

But he’d never made it, that Sunday afternoon. After the incident with Williamson, he’d been assigned extra chores and quarantined to camp, and Dutch’d made good on the punishment; He’d watched Arthur like a hawk, so much so Arthur hadn’t even been able to sneak away to post a letter to her. When he’d asked John to do it for him, the boy’d just scoffed – “Ain’t no one waiting for a letter from your dumb ass, Morgan.”

 

Arthur’d had to spend the better part of three days trying to get back in Dutch's good graces; He had been able to feel the last remnants of Dutch’s seed leak from his ass as he rode to Mary’s family home, finally having earned Dutch’s forgiveness.

 

When he’d knocked on the door, just past sundown, the young servant girl had answered; he’d asked for Mary, and the girl had left him standing awkwardly on the porch.

 

Against his better judgement, he’d drank some before he’d arrived, in hopes it would give him the little kick of courage he needed to see her and explain the whole mess clearly. Instead, it’d just made him feel sick as he stood there, waiting.

 

“Lady says she ain’t wanna see no good-for-nothin’ outlaw what can’t even send a timely apology for leavin' her to lunch alone,” the girl'd explained when she’d returned to the door.

 

Arthur’s heart had crawled like a rat up into his throat.

 

“C’mon, just let me in, it’ll only take a minute,” he’d said, a low mumble to keep the desperation from creeping into his voice.

 

“Lady also says you a bastard, mister. She ain’t want no bastards in her family home, sullyin' the good Gillis name.”

 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake – “

 

It’d been easy to push his way past the girl and into the foyer of the grand Gillis home. When he’d called for her – “Mary! Mary, c’mon, let me explain” – his heart had felt like a bird in a box, fluttering and afraid. Anger had welled in him like tears.

 

“Mary!”

 

By the time she’d come to him, still in her nightgown and a thick shawl to cover herself with, keep her proper, the whole house had woken up; her mother was stood at the top of the stairs, looking about ready to pass out from the shock of it all to her delicate sensibilities, and little Jamie had peered wide-eyed at Arthur through the banister. Mary’d ushered him away from their prying eyes, into the library, and shut the door firmly behind them.

 

“Arthur Morgan, you no-good wretch, what is _wrong_ with you? Bustin' in here at this hour, givin' mama and Jamie the fright of their life with all your shouting!” She’d hissed it, quiet and angry and not at all the booming thunder he’d expected. What he’d expected, he could handle; didn’t know if he could handle _this_ , whatever this was.

 

“I just wanted – “

 

“You just _what_? Wanted to make damn fools of the both of us? Wanted to give daddy another reason to hate you? Wanted everyone to know what a damn _savage_ you are?”

 

Her words had stung, and in that moment he’d wished she’d just go ahead and hit him already, beat him like a bad dog and get it over with. He'd imagined her grabbing him by the hair, forcing him to his knees; imagined her slapping him hard across the face, hard enough to leave the shape of her hand there like a brand; imagined her taking his big, brutish hand in hers and pushing it up under the skirt of her nightgown, up and up until his fingers made it clear just how sorry he was. It would've hurt more than whatever this was, but at least if she’d done that it would’ve been familiar.

 

But she hadn’t done any of that, hadn’t even raised her hand to strike him – instead, she’d sighed, turned, and flopped down on the low canapé before looking at him with those sad mare’s eyes in a way that’d made him feel raw. She’d patted the seat beside her, timid and undemanding and he couldn’t help but obey such a request, given without any real power behind it.

 

When he’d sat, all she’d done was rest her head on his shoulder and sighed again, tired and wistful.

 

“We ain’t ever gonna make this work out right, are we?” She’d sounded resigned, like she already knew the answer. They both did.

 

He’d answered anyway.

 

“No, I suppose not.”

 

For a long time after, they’d sat in silence, her head rested gentle on his shoulder. He’d kept waiting for her to say something, do something to let him know what he was supposed to do, how she’d wanted him to make it up to her. What did he owe her, for first standing her up and then making a fool of himself, again, in the family home?

 

When she’d reached for his hand to hold it in hers, he’d let her, and she’d run her thumb over his bruised knuckles, slow and soothing and without motive. Holding his hand just for the sake of it, not asking anything of him for it, not guiding or goading or coaxing or bribing. Just holding, for as long as he wanted to be held.

 

He’d never wanted to let go.

 

***

 

He hadn’t told Dutch about Mary, that summer, had wanted to keep her secret, his own private something; hadn’t even been sure how to explain her to Dutch, if he’d wanted to. Couldn’t explain how he loved her, how antithetical it was to everything Dutch’d taught him.

 

He remembers Dutch imparting the wisdom to him as he’d been on his knees, happily choking himself on the man’s cock just for the pleasure of a hand stroking lovingly over the tangled hair at the back of his head.

 

“Women love with their hearts, Arthur,” he’d explained through grunts and groans, pushing his hips forward, making Arthur gag on the length of him. “But, ah, we men? We love – shit, fuck yeah, take it boy, just like that – we, we love, first and foremost, with our, ah, our fuck, fuckin' cocks. Just like this.”

 

Afterwards, as Dutch had collected his spend from Arthur’s face and fed it to him, pushed it between his sore, chapped lips, cooing to him about love and devotion, Arthur’d thought maybe he didn’t love Mary like that. Loved her with his heart and his lungs and with the unnameable broken bits and pieces of him, but not with his cock; he loved her different from the way he and Dutch had always loved one another. Had figured maybe that was exactly what made him love her so much.

 

 

 

If Dutch’d known about them, Arthur’s sure Dutch wouldn’t’ve studded him out the way he did that July, when Arthur’d been twenty-two and young and strong and valuable as any prize stallion. When Arthur thinks about it now, he blames himself; if he’d have told Dutch, Dutch surely would’ve respected what he and Mary had. Surely.

 

 

But he hadn’t told Dutch, and in the end it had been for the better – the debt owed to Mrs Lavalloise, by Dutch and Hosea both, had been significant, but they’d struck a fine deal; she’d forgive the debt and pay  handsomely, if only they’d got her what she'd needed.

 

“A baby?” The word had caught in Arthur’s throat like phlegm, thick and sticky, when Dutch’d told him.

 

“A baby. Now go get washed.”

 

 

 

When he and Dutch had arrived at the Lavalloise estate outside of Jeune Paris, Arthur’d been scrubbed pink and raw from his nose to his toes and trussed up in finery that’d made him feel tangled up and exposed all at once. Hosea’d helped, even, never missing and opportunity to get Arthur all dressed up for a song and dance. When he’d tied the silk cravat around Arthur’s neck, it’d felt like a noose.

 

Dutch’d explained the situation quick and easy on the ride over as John'd played the part of the dutiful carriage driver. Millicent Lavalloise's old, doddering husband, a judge with a love for sending good men to hang, was richer than sin and old enough to be her grand daddy, no doubt set to die in no more than ten years time. If he kicked the bucket before Milly had a baby by the old fool, his money’d fly right over her head and into the hands of her husband’s grown children by his first wife, God rest her soul, and the poor current Mrs Lavalloise'd be shit out of luck.

 

That was where they, ever the benevolent defenders of the weak and downtrodden, came in.

 

“At least,” Dutch had chuckled, squeezing Arthur’s thick thigh conspiratorially, “That is where _you_ will come in.”

 

 

 

 

The lady'd had the biggest tits Arthur’d ever seen on a human woman, and they alone had sparked a traitorous feeling of arousal low in his gut. She’d had wide hips and thick, full lips that she bit pensively as she’d eyed him up and down, inspecting him as if he were a particularly unimpressive horse at auction, or perhaps a slab of meat she was considering feeding to her dogs.

 

He’d hated her immediately, hated the way just looking at her had made his cock stiff with desire, even as she prised his mouth open to examine his teeth, a stud horse in all but name. He’d wanted to bite those tiny fingers of hers right off.

 

“A fine specimen,” Dutch had said. “Blue-eyed and fair as an Irishman, ma’am, strong as an ox and smart as a whip.  Your husband will never know the difference, and you will have the healthiest child this side of the Yananasii, I can assure you.”

 

Dutch’d held his hand as she’d fucked him, and he’d tried to lose himself in the bouncing of her breasts and the high, keening whines of her as she rode his cock. It’d been hard, though, with Dutch’s strong arm draped across his hips to keep him from bucking up into her, Dutch’s voice in his ear.

 

“Can’t have you damaging a prize mare with that monster of yours, can we?” Dutch’d murmured, low and warm and quiet in a way that told Arthur that Dutch was hard, too. “I know how you get, my boy, how desperate you get for it, can’t hardly help yourself. I know, don’t you worry.

“Remember how you used to rut against my leg like a bitch in heat, shooting off before I even got a hand on you?  You still beg for my cock, don’t you, son? Just can’t help it, always desperate for a fuck, that’s the way I raised you, ain’t it?”

 

Arthur’d only groaned out a low, rumbling “yes” when he’d come inside Mrs Lavalloise, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, with Dutch’s hand reaching around to massage his balls, as if to milk it all from him.

 

Millicent had handed them a stack of cash so large it’d barely fit in her hand, and they’d stopped at a saloon on their way home to keep the money from burning a hole in their pockets. Arthur’d gotten so stupid drunk that night, he could barely remember the next three days – just remembers the feeling of her hot and tight around him, the hot tight knot of rage in his stomach. The hot burn of his tears as he’d sobbed drunkenly into John’s shoulder and then thrown up at his feet.

 

He didn’t see Mary for a week after that, until he was sure the smells of perfume and pussy and bitter shame had been replaced with the familiar stink of smoke and sweat.

 

 

 

***

 

After the night he’d barged into the Gillis home, woke the whole family with his shouting, Mr Gillis had forbid Arthur from the house; had said to Mary while Arthur’d stood right there, hat in hand, “If you’re gunna be bringing that rabid stray around, he’s going to have to follow the same rules as any other filthy beasts on my property.”

 

Arthur’d tried not to let it bother him much, taking comfort in the fact he hadn’t been forbid from Mary all together; still, it’d stung, salt in the wound of circumstance, a private shame he’d shared with no one, not even John or Hosea. Certainly not Dutch.

 

Mary’d been none too pleased with the situation either, but seemed resigned to her father’s word immediately, had smiled a rueful smile and said, defiantly, “I guess we’ll be taking supper out on the porch then, won’t we?”

 

 

For the rest of that blessed summer, Arthur’d spent evenings on the front porch of the Gillis family estate, Mary at his side – sketching her in profile as she worked needlepoint in the light of the setting sun, or chain smoking, nodding sagely as she’d filled him in on the week’s news and gossip from town. Sometimes, they’d just sit together, holding hands; in those moments, Arthur’d felt the hard knots of tension in his shoulders loosen and the tight fist around his heart unclench, ever so slightly. In those moments, he’d felt almost at peace.

 

He remembers the evening she’d first brought that book out with painful clarity; They’d been together on the setee on the porch, Arthur stretched out with his head in her lap, her thin fingers gently combing through his hair. He remembers the dress she was wearing, green with tiny stars embroidered on the bodice. Remembers how he’d been just on the edge of dozing, lulled nearly to sleep by the peace of it, when she’d sighed contentedly and reached over him, out of sight.

 

The book she’d grabbed had been thick and bound in black and when he seen it, he had felt so sick he’d worried he might spill his rotten guts all across the planks of the porch and her fine green dress. His body had become a bowstring, pulled taut and ready to snap, jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack and splinter like old wood. The wind had been knocked out of him and he could barely breathe.

 

“Have you ever read this _Frankenstein_ story?” she’d asked casually, as if she didn’t know what she was doing to him. “Its truly horrific, but I absolutely can’t put it down. And written by a woman! Can you believe?”

 

And without pretense or purpose, she’d begun to read aloud to him, book in one hand, the other hand gently stroking at the rough stubble of his cheek as she read.  

 

_“I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”_

 

He doesn’t know how long it’d taken him to catch his breath, until he could actually hear her over the rush of blood in his ears and the buzz of bees in his brain. It’d taken even longer, though, for the tension to unwind from his body, for his aching jaw to unclench and for him to realize, with a little astonishment, she was just reading to him, really and truly and only. It’d just been reading, pure and simple, and the relief of the realization was better than any release Dutch’d ever given him.

 

***

 

Summer’d begun it’s slow descent into winter, just as it always had, and Arthur and Mary had moved their lazy evenings of drawing and reading from the porch to the barn, Mary as unwilling as ever to disobey her father in any meaningful way. By lamplight, tucked up close together under the pretense of warding off the autumn chill, he’d taught her poker and she’d taught him cribbage and backgammon and even chess, and she’d bested him at all of them.

 

He remembers a particularly frustrating game of Elephant’s Foot Umbrella Stand they’d played, she and Arthur and little Jamie, who’d been no more than eleven at the time. The two of them had had a hell of a time teasing and taunting Arthur – “Nope, no cigarettes, Mr Morgan, try again!” – until he’d made a show of collapsing in frustration, burying his face in the soft furs draped over Mary’s lap, furs he’d brought her as a birthday gift and which she would wear faithfully for winters long after they’d parted ways.

 

They’d laughed, innocent and joyous as fools, and after Jamie’d been sent to bed, the two of them had stretched out on a thin blanket in the hayloft, curled together like puzzle pieces, Arthur’s head resting on the swell of her chest.

 

He’d been able to hear her heartbeat then, languid and peaceful and steady in a way he’d never known as she’d spoken to him, quiet and content.

 

“You’re a scoundrel and a fool, Arthur Morgan, but God don’t I love you for it.”

 

When she’d said it that first time, on that chill autumn evening, it’d made his heart feel uncaged, like a songbird set free. He’d thought it was strange and novel, the lightness of her love; it’d been so unlike the heavy, crushing weight of being loved by Dutch.

 

If only it could’ve lasted.

 

***

 

It’d been mid-October when the whole thing went to shit in that terrible, unavoidable way things always seemed to go to shit for him.

 

Arthur’d brought her a gift that day, to soften the blow of it; the signet ring Dutch’d given him on his twentieth birthday, gold and emblazoned with a looping A.M., strung on a chain for her to wear around her neck.

 

It’d be only for the winter, Arthur’d explained – he’d be gone 'til the spring, down to finish this Mexico  job, but would write Mary every day, and when he returned, maybe they could make a real go of it together. He’d have money then, he told her, enough money to start something real and honest and true, if only she could wait 'til the spring.

 

“I have given you _everything_ , Arthur Morgan!”  That had been the first time she’d shouted at him, really shouted, her voice sharp and pointed as hawthorn. “What more can I give to you that I haven’t already, to make you stay?”

 

There’d been shiny, wet tears in her eyes, and Arthur’d felt like he was drowning in them.

 

“All I want is for you to stay, for you to just _once_ do as I ask and _stay_. You’re not some little boy; tell him you’re staying and stay with me, please.”

 

“Mary, I can’t, I –“

 

He remembers how she’d stepped in close, so close her breasts had pressed up against his chest; how the heat of her body on his had been like the burning sting of the belt, or the sizzle of a cigar pressed against bare skin. How she’d kissed him then, open mouthed and intentional and demanding. How she’d wrapped her arms around him, as if to pen him in, her hands pressed firm and pleading against the solid muscle of his scarred back.

 

He’d wanted to hit her, then, wanted her to hit him, wanted to taste the metallic, angry taste of blood instead of the soft, unnameable flavour of her lips. At least if she’d hit him, it would have hurt less than the way she’d grabbed him, trapped him, the way she’d made his cock begin to harden with unbidden desire.

 

But he hadn’t hit her – only shoved her, but hard enough to send her stumbling backwards, her face full of shock and betrayal, her big, brown mare’s eyes made icy with anger. Arthur’d wanted to run from her, then.

 

There’d been a quiet, still moment before the storm of her anger burst, where the only sound had been that of the ring he’d given her clattering on the cold hardwood floor.

 

Arthur’d turned to go even before she’d shouted for him to get out, get the hell out and never come back, her voice sounding like broken glass and cutting him up just the same. He hadn’t even been able to glance at her over his shoulder as he’d gone, his body bowstring-taut with anger he couldn’t explain.

 

He’d remembered, then, Hosea's words, the first lesson the belt had taught him _;_ _All anger is born of fear, Arthur._

 

Was it love he’d been afraid of, that night?

 

 

 

He hadn’t even bothered to hitch his horse when he’d returned to camp – a camp already half-packed in preparation for their imminent departure – late that same night. Stinking of sweat and smoke and sweet liquor, he’d stumbled into Dutch’s tent, had crawled his way into Dutch’s lap and curled there the way he had when he was a boy, face burrowed in the warm, familiar crook of the man’s neck, hiding his tears there.

 

Dutch’d soothed him then, without question – had slid his big, firm hands up the back of Arthur’s shirt to trace the topography of scars there as he’d cooed, soft and low, in Arthur’s ear.

 

“It’s alright, my boy,” Dutch’d whispered as he’d peppered Arthur’s skin with wet, opened-mouthed kisses, his cock a hard, searing brand against Arthur’s thigh. “I’ve got you now, you’re safe here with me. I won’t let you go. Just stay here with me, it’ll all be alright.”

 

When Dutch’d fucked him that night, slow and gentle, Arthur loose and open from drink and despair, it’d been so full of tender love that Arthur had felt the crushing weight of it so severely it’d squeezed the air from his lungs, had made him feel like breaking glass even as he’d come messy and sudden in Dutch’s hand.

 

Lying there afterward, curled against Dutch's side, Dutch had lulled him to sleep with oaths of love and loyalty and stories of violent, angry men doing violent, angry things in the name of those two virtues.

 

Arthur’d thought then, hazy with sleep, the other man’s jism still leaking from his hole, that maybe things like love and hate and sex and anger and fear and pain, maybe they were all the same thing in the heart of a man like him. Maybe that was just the kind of animal that Dutch’d raised him up to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Me: oh man i love the arthur/mary sad one-that-got-away dynamic  
> also me: what if i .......... make it hurt more
> 
> here i kind of wanted to explore the aftermath of trauma and the continued retriggering of living with ones abuser and being unable to identify it as abuse, and the continued manipulation of the victim by the abuser, and the kind of relationship dynamics that might lead to, as well as like, the root of anger in a character i see as being really introspective and even sensitive...
> 
> ........... also im a nasty man who just likes to write mean dumpster fic about characters i love dont @ me 
> 
> i'm still only on chapter 4 :)
> 
> bonus: you can now shout at me about sad cowboys on the tumblr i made just for sad cowboys, assless-chapstick.tumblr.com  
> git at me, boah


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